I eventually got back on the bike and abandoned all hope as I rode over the crest of a small hill and observed the squatting cortex of pestilence that was my place of employment. It was a cinderblock building, grey like dead flesh, black tinted windows that would not open to allow fresh air inside, full of cubicles and the walking dead. The pathetic dead, who wandered moaning in grotesque simulacrum of life, chewing colorfully-wrapped armpit-flavored DubblePorky-Squeezeburgers and drinking Exxxtreme Kwench Kiwi-Kornsyrup Phizz. Oh, if only they would be satisfied with merely eating human brains, like normal zombies. The muted, monotone, mournful speech that issued from their masticating jaws echoed with the sound of abyss. Scraps of advertising, pop-culture jargon and homely catchphrases whirled inanely on erratic winds of clumsy intent. These dead had but one objective: To do as little as possible, because they were dead and they wanted to rest …and to have another DubblePorky-Squeezeburger. So, two objectives, I guess. There were between five and seven of these sad, shambling creatures in my office building on any given day, depending on how many of the dead had called in sick. Fluorescent lights lent a grayish tone to the skin. Low cubicle walls cut off everyone just above waist level and made ghastly hand puppets of them all.

     And I was King of the Zombies. No-one did less than me. I did less by accident than most people could do on purpose. I had been working at the job for a decade, and over the years I had gradually, methodically delegated every useful task I could perform to a lesser staff member. I worked for Retro Taxi, a large cab company serving Ann Arbor and Metropolitan Detroit, as a “Terminal Manager.” There were phones that I avoided. There was a garage full of cheesy retro-styled Checker taxicabs that I did not maintain or think about. There were cabdrivers, who avoided the office because the office forced them to dress in cheesy retro-styled uniforms, which they hated.  There were some computers. There were other mysterious and expensive office machines (the laser printer was particularly nice because you could put a beautiful girl’s breasts against it, and make color copies on hi-gloss paper. Not that I ever had done that, but I had had plenty of time to imagine it. I would help her take off the fuzzy purple sweater, turn her around gently in my arms and she would bend, gracefully, at the waist, pressing her pink-tipped globes gently against the glass plate, and she’d be laughing with a sound like water and bells. The bright light could scan her at up to 11” X 17”, and collate if necessary).

     A cheesy retro-styled cabdriver was just leaving, and I rode my bike right through the front door without dismounting all the way to my cubicle. It was necessary for several of the walking dead to leap to the side to avoid collision with my bike. On the last corner I knocked the fax machine off a filing cabinet, which might have broken it slightly, but I was able to make it all the way to my desk chair without setting foot on the loathsomely stained and dreadful office carpet.

     The carpet at Retro Taxi was one of the most truthfully retro articles at Retro Taxi. The Checker cabs were actually fiberglass reproduction shells on a Ford Fiesta frame, but the carpet must have dated back to 1967. It was orange paisley lo-rise shag with black shiny stains and occasional peek-a-boo holes to the plywood subfloor. It was a living, sentient organism, named the Bob.

     “Good morning, the Bob. You’re looking… moist. How was the weekend?” I asked. I try to be polite to him.

     “Fuckin’ fabulous as a carpet’s weekend could be, you fuck, man.” wheezed the Bob, glaring at me through reddened eyes with curiously luxuriant feminine eyelashes, “Just as fabulous as you can be when you’re nailed to the floor, man. Your fucking weekend dispatcher burned a hole the size of a pieca toast in my Southwest quadrant with his fucking cigarillo ashes. When the fuck is someone gonna vacuum? These festering mold spores are itchy.”

     “The last time the janitor tried to vacuum in here, you convinced him to become a vegan Communist and renounce electricity, the Bob. Why don’t you vacuum yourself? I’ve seen you use your tentacular loose scrap near the fax machine to accept pizza deliveries and roll spleefs. ”

     “Fang, you’re a fuckin’ corporate tool,” said the Bob, dismissively. The Bob had an old tinny cassette deck, and he started singing along with some electric late sixties band, -the Illuminated Parsnip, I think it was- in a horrifying falsetto.

     I punched in at the timeclock. By which I mean, I used my managerial access code to set the time back on the timeclock and punched in seven minutes before my scheduled shift time, then reset the timeclock to the correct time again, more or less.

     My cubicle shared a wall with Juanet (pronounced “waaahnitt”), who answered phones when she had to and entered the customer’s information incorrectly into the computer dispatch software. Juanet said, “Didja see that TV show last night with the good looking guy and the short guy and the Mexican guy where they have to eat all the hair? And there was the commercial where the butterflies conquer the onion for New Waxy Air Sensations Watermelon Potpourri Pluggerz? You just plug them in, and it waxes your nostrils with elegant simulated fruit?  I got two of them Pluggerz at the gas station this morning?  And I got them here on my desk at the end of an extension cord so’s I can just waaave ‘em under my nose between calls and Be Wafted Away on a Watermelon Zephyr? You know?”

     “Yes,” I replied cautiously, and turned my computer on.  A revolting Waxy Watermelon Zephyr oozed sickly-sweet over the rim of the cubicle. I tied a bandanna over my mouth and nose, like a train-robbin’ cowboy.

     “I went to Cap’n Salty’s? Yesterday? With Kathie Kay? Who is my cousin with the husband with the red toupee and the Green Dodge Manatee? And they have new Fried Ranch Nubs? And Kathie Kay? She’s trying to order? At the Drivethrough? And they said their Nub congealant wasn’t working? So the Fried Ranch Nubs might be Slimy? But the guy had like a Oriental accent? So congealant wasn’t easy to understand? Over the speaker? And Kathy Kay says to the guy she says learn to speak American or go back to Hong Kong Ching Chong? ‘Cause she was mad about the slimy Ranch Nubs mostly? And then we got Jalapeno Rib Fingers instead? And they tasted funny? Reeeaaaallly funny? I threw up a little? ”

     “No,” I replied cautiously. The phone rang. I didn’t answer it. Neither did Jaunet.

     “I heard on the radio? On the Wacky Kooky Morning Zoo Crew? Who Get My Morning Started Right With Wacky Kooky Fart Noises? That Arabs smell funny? But I think them Orientals smell funnier? And I thought maybe it was like an Oriental smell got on my Rib Fingers?”

     The phone stopped ringing. Juanet paused, “I was gonna get that,” she said, and the phone immediately started ringing again.

     “So then I went home for my shows on TV? Like the one with the hair and also Ejaculations on the Doormat of Celebrity? I love that show? And I felt like that Oriental smell that I ate was seeping out of my pores? ‘Cause I could still smell it?  And I was afraid that it would get on my Davenport? Even though I got a vinyl Davenport prophylactic? So I got those new Antibacterial Lavender-Pineapple Body Wipes from the Paper Towel Outlet? That it’s my choice to use every day instead of bathing for a Germicide-Fresh Whole Wipe Experience?  ‘Cause you can wipe yourself all over without having to get too far from your TV? Which is sooo nice? ‘Cause I hate to miss the Ejaculations? So I’m standing there having my Wipe Experience? But I forgot about the big window because I was entranced by the Ejaculations on the Doormat of Celebrity? And the guy from the Pesticide Service was spraying the front lawn? And I think the guy was watching my Wipe Experience?”

     “Yes,” I replied cautiously. Juanet has an unusual physique, birdbone thin from the navel up, shoulderblades and ribs clearly outlined through her terrycloth seasonal sweatshirts, with twitchy hands and raisins for eyes, and the pelvis and legs of a brontosaurus. Offhand, I’d put her measurements at 14” -17”- 94.”  I imagine she looks pretty amazing having her Wipe Experience, if you’ve been inhaling pesticide all day long. The phone stopped ringing.

     There was a pause.

     “I was gonna get that,” said Juanet, “So I think the guy saw I seed him and the guy gets in his truck real fast and drives away? And I keep wiping and watching my Ejaculations? And Lulu Bricious? Who wears them patriotic merkins and sings that beautiful song about how her Merkin Waves in the Winds of Freedom for True American Guts against the Arabs? She had a tragic operation because of her Burgeoning Neck Wattles? And they ejaculated about that for a long time? I think… at this time, it’s really important to see how America responds to Lulu’s Wattle Plight?  We can pull together, or we can pull apart?”

     “No,” I replied cautiously. The phone started ringing again. Juanet twitched, accidentally triggered her headset and answered the phone. She sighed heavily into the microphone and muttered, “Thank you for calling Retro Taxi where Good Ol’ Fashioned Taxi Service is New Taxi Solutions for the Future… what… where… what… and then where… what… not in Livonia… I guess… no… no we won’t … I don’t know… look I’ve got another line ringing... five to a hundred and fifty-seven minutes … no … whatever?” She hung up. She hadn’t turned her computer on yet, so she promptly forgot to put the order in the system. 

     “Remember last year when I took my StarCrost Luxury Cruise where you are Pampered by 24 Hour Hot Roman Buffets and Dazzling Entertainment by Star-Quality Acts within the serene atmosphere of an elegant floaty shopping mall? We stopped at this island? And they had a beautiful exotic Cap’n Salty’s right there by the dock? With palm trees on the wallpaper in the toilet? I ate four orders of Jalapeno Rib Fingers with Diet Tangerine Root Beer? And I didn’t even throw up a little? So I think it was the Oriental smell? But I think them Antibacterial Lavender-Pineapple Body Wipes and my Industrial Custard-Style Deodorant and Chocomint Body Shpritzers and Intimate Banana Hygiene Sprays and Odor-Eating shoe liners really work for me as a person to get rid of Oriental smells so that I, too, can choose to smell American?” I heard her take a deep whiff of her Pluggerz, and cough up some wax chunks.

     “Yes,” I said cautiously. I had logged on to a website that showed celebrities’ heads crudely Photoshopped onto the bodies of explicitly mating animals with hilarious word balloons, which held my attention for forty-five minutes, during which time Juanet gradually stopped talking and went to the break room to relax about Oriental smells. The phone rang for so long that the dispatcher woke up. It stopped ringing.

     “I was gonna get that,” I heard Juanet say from the break room.